


Oh, Darling.

by sabaix



Category: The Picture of Dorian Gray - Oscar Wilde, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5K vignette, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Victor with a K, YOI Shit Bang 2017, YOIShitBang2017, chris has a gallery, kinda dorian gray au, magic stuff happens, victor is a former dancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 02:50:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11958156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabaix/pseuds/sabaix
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov didn’t believe in fate, but his heart did.





	Oh, Darling.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, guys! This is a fic I wrote for the YOI Shit Bang 2017 because we should be able to ship and enjoy any kind of content without censorship.
> 
> 1\. I wrote this for fun. I make no profits out of it.  
> 2\. This is unbeta'ed. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> 3\. All constructive criticism is welcomed and desired!  
> 4\. I tagged this as a soulmate AU, although that part is not so obvious because I aimed for realism. Victor knows that Yuuri is the one, but no magic/tattoos/etc are involved in this knowledge of his. 
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy! ^^

“You should buy it if you like it that much.”

Viktor nods, agreeing to a possibility he never considered; not even in the long nights when he had to welcome the sun, and not even in the hard winters of the north, or in the hot summers of the south, or… when he was by himself on the stage and the theatre was empty. He nods only to acknowledge the presented idea, but not to inform Christophe that he will follow through.

“I really shouldn’t.” He says again, feeling like he repeated the sentence a thousand times. He tries to look at Christophe, but the man on the other side of the room captures his eyes once more, demanding his undivided attention. The man’s eyes are almost red, but Viktor knew they were actually a soft kind of brown, which always reflected the light better than all his glittery costumes did over his entire career.

“C’mon, Nikiforov, mon cher, you know you’re my favourite, but if I catch you looking at that thing one more time, I’ll show you the door.” Chris makes a small pause. He has a playful smile on his lips, almost demeaning. “No regrets.”

Viktor grins at him. “I am sorry. You know I was always surrounded by beauty, you saw my studio so many times…” Viktor inhales fast and deep, and his eyes shoot back to the man across the room. The dancer keeps returning to the man, sometimes during the day and sometimes in the middle of the nights. It was a dangerous tango that could never find its ending, but the Russian could not, for the love of him, stay away.

Chris hums in his direction. It was a quiet night and all the other guests were already gathered in groups of their own, chatting the hours away. The two friends were hidden away in a small archway next to the entrance of the Gallery. Because of his fame, it was rare for Viktor to find oases of silence, yet Chris’s Gallery was one of those quiet paradises.

“I have a buyer for it.”

Viktor’s heart suffocated.

“Ha, Chris, you know I don’t appreciate such jokes.” He almost reminded the Swiss man about his last relationship. It had been disastrous to say the least. Viktor didn’t like thinking about it, and he was well aware Chris hated talking about it as much. He never liked Melissa.

“I am not joking, Nikiforov.”

Viktor’s heart twists and turns and jumps higher than he was able to on the stage. He is utterly and completely destroyed, yet he looks over in Chris’s eyes, forcing his soul to confront the truth. The painting was going away because he enjoyed it too much, he stalled it for too long, and he waited for a miracle that couldn’t happen. Miracles didn’t exist.

“I will buy it.” Viktor whispers, too afraid of his own spontaneous behaviour. He was out of his depth and he knew the awful moment the words formed on his lips that he will certainly regret the decision. But his heart pushed him forward, pushed him to ask Chris for the painting.

His friend regarded him calmly, silent. Chris was obviously judging Viktor’s capacity to think straight. But the Swiss man didn’t say anything.

“How much are you willing to pay for it?”

 _Anything._ Viktor almost answered. _Everything._ Chris didn’t wait for his answer. He probably knew it before asking the question anyway. He probably knew what Viktor was willing to sacrifice in the way Viktor was gazing at the painting, or in the unsaid words that died on his tongue, or maybe Chris saw the answer in Viktor’s, hidden away even when he was smiling on a stage, under the yellow lights. Maybe he was such a good friend that he needed no words or signs from the dancer to realise the truth which was dripping from his heart. _My soul?_

“Very well, Nikiforov.”

Everything in Viktor stopped.

“I will sell you _The Portrait of Mercante Catsucchi_ , but you should know that…” Chris stops there, in the middle of the sentence. Viktor suddenly dreads whatever the continuation is. His friend cautiously looks around the room. “All the other owners, they all…” Chris stops again, making Viktor wanting to rip the words off from his friend’s lips. “…died or went mad. They were just coincidences, most likely.” Chris shrugs. “I thought it’d be a good idea to tell you.” Chris chuckles. “It’s not like a painting can get off the wall and kill you.”

They both laughed.

\---

Viktor Nikiforov wasn’t a hoarder. His apartment was an open space. Most rooms were divided by half walls or wood doors for the bathroom and the two bedrooms; his walls were mainly empty, unless covered in bookshelves. In the living room, right across the ceiling tall windows, he had an empty space. One of his exes quickly covered it after her first visit. She never warned him, simply brought a small painting of a forest, done in oil and enclosed in a golden frame, to his apartment, and with her two tiny hands, she destroyed his wall and hung it there. She was so proud of her spontaneous decision that she waited for him to return from the theatre after a show. She was sprawled on his white leather couch when he entered the apartment, beaten up and ready to never wake up again. She even hugged him and told him what she did. Viktor took her by the shoulders and pushed her out. He locked the door after her and just slept on the couch that night. It made no sense to throw away the painting, so he left it hanging on his once empty wall. He deleted her, whatever her name even was.

Now, the forest was finally going to burn. As soon as he returned home, Viktor took the small painting and put it on the floor, propped up on the wall. There was a darker patch of colour in its place. Did it really pass so much time? How many waves of time washed over him?

Three days later, _The Portrait of Mercante Catsucchi_ arrived. It was delivered in a mirror box. The entire artwork was wrapped in pastel pink bubble wrap, and the golden frame was covered with another layer of ugly acid–free tissue paper. Around everything, there was another layer of a silky blue material. _Prussian Blue_ , Christophe called that colour. It was a faded kind of dark blue, playing on the edges of turquoise and green. It was ugly. The rest of the box was filled with hundreds and hundreds of pink packing peanuts. Christophe had a lot of fun packing that painting. When Viktor got it out and uncovered it, he found a small piece of paper between the protective layers.

_Be careful. – C.G._

On his former empty-but-covered-by-an-ex wall, _The Portrait of Mercante Catsucchi_ fit perfectly. It covered the place where the forest was and the later afternoon sun bathed it in a soft yellow glow. Viktor could see the glint of wealth in the reds of the man’s eyes and something that tasted like vanity in the folds of his white shirt. The dancer’s gaze slowly traced the soft marks of the brushes from centuries past, the lovely shades intertwining in the dark background and the pose of the merchant. He felt like a thirsty man in a never-ending desert, never satisfied with what he received.

There were four important elements in the picture which Christophe pointed out to him, when he first allowed his eyes to scrutinize it: the man and his Asian features was the first and most obvious, then came the chaotic table, the chair used as a coatrack and the window showing a landscape of water and plains.

The merchant himself was slightly turned towards the viewer and standing. His left hand was resting on the table full of documents, next to something which resembled a map of some sort, but most details from the background were faded. The hero of the painting, on the other hand, looked like the artist was just done with his finishing touches. Time didn’t exist for him.

He wore a blue Italian doublet. It was a lovely shade. _Ultramarinus_ , they called it, if Viktor wasn’t mistaken. _Beyond the sea._ It was quite fitting, considering the pigment was imported from the mines of Afghanistan during the Renaissance. The merchants brought it on their huge ships and the artists of the land made it the most expensive and finest colour. They sculpted a meaning for it, and they chose holiness, humility, and the robes of the _Madonna_. Viktor agreed fully, especially because the painter dressed Mercante Catsucchi in the same tones. On the back of the chair, a black _cioppa_ was resting. It had golden details on its edges, almost invisible at a glance. Viktor had to raise the painting close to his face to distinguish the wave-like pattern. _Seikaiha?_ That was strange. He highly doubted that whoever painted that portrait knew anything of Japanese culture. Mercante Catsucchi probably told the artist about the pattern and suggested the design.

No caps or hats covered his hair, although headwear was mandatory in public during those years. The merchant’s hair was cut short; barely covering the tips of the man’s ears, yet his fringe reached his eyelashes.

Finally, his expression was calm, but daring. A smile was playing on the man’s lips, not obvious, awfully inconclusive; but how could a smirk even hold an answer to an unspoken question?

Viktor Nikiforov loved art; adored to surround himself with it and look at it in museums and galleries. He loved it and that was the first fact everyone learned when they met Viktor Nikiforov. He was no collector, no connoisseur. Unlike others, he thought art’s purpose was to be in the public’s eye, to be interacted with, _to be seen_.  Much like the creators themselves, Viktor fed off culture and opinions. _Was the show enjoyable? Did he play a good Cléante? Was his Petrushka believable?_ So Viktor craved attention and art and more applause. He needed them to survive. He needed them more than air or a functioning body.

In his line of work, no one could be ignorant. If such a situation occurred, there were several ways for the person in question to educate themselves. The fear of rejection was the best motivation. Viktor had no such reason. Viktor came from a good family. Viktor didn’t think Sergei Prokofiev’ _Romeo and Juliet_ was all that hard on his fingers;, Viktor drank tea with Lyudmila Talikova every second Sunday of the month;, and Svetlana Shilova helped him up the stairs of the Bolshoi Theatre after his mother when he was three. He entered the industry in black pointe shoes with the same easiness he flew on the stage in his first Cabriolé done in a performance. His mother took pride in knowledge (and perfection). After twenty years, Viktor could still feel the red mark blooming on his cheek after she touched him when he couldn’t remember the capital of Uganda. Why couldn’t he understand it was important to know?

_Why couldn’t she understand he’d have preferred to read The Brothers Karamazov again?_

At 35, Viktor couldn’t remember his mother’s face anymore. The threat of broken bones is creeping behind him, coming closer every day. His mother was (is?) a legend. It was said that she was (she is?) a beautiful woman, that she had (has?) suitors without number at her feet and that the entire costume department knew (knows?) her measurements. Yet Viktor couldn’t even remember if her hair was blonde or black? If she was petite or tall? If she was still alive or not.

At 35, Viktor remembered Christophe’s face from his debut night better than his own mother’s face.

But Viktor’s memory was amazing. He rarely forgot dates or appointments. He didn’t need an agenda (although he had one, received as a gift from Lilia) or an assistant (although he also had one of those because Christophe insisted). He could remember his own appointments. So the entire incident seemed even weirder in retrospect. If he never forgot anything, how could he miss the meeting with Lilia? And it was about the new show too. Viktor wanted to slap himself when Lilia, all expensive furs and high heeled boots came into his office, seemingly calm and collected. Yet again, she always seemed more like a statue than a human being. Her high cheekbones were lightly painted with _Desert sand_ and her lips were covered in a shining, soft _Mauve_. Although he spent most of his life under the limelight, Viktor didn’t speak make-up at all. Georgi was the specialist in that particular subject. She looked both beautiful and terrifying, but Viktor learned fast and hard that the best people were exactly like that. Her eyes were burning with a furious _Chartreuse green_. Viktor knew he was doomed the moment she stopped in front of his desk, with a grimace on her lips and a look that could kill anyone who dared to look her in the eyes. Viktor thought Medusa had more mercy in her damned blood than Lilia Baranovskaya.

It was a mistake on his part to ask “How may I help you, Lilia?” and from there, Viktor just fell further and further. Every question or answer made Lilia even more annoyed with life in general and his incompetence. They started screaming at each other after some minutes of tense exchanges _. It was only right_ , Viktor will think later. _It was in the making_ , he will try to convince himself. _I don’t have to apologize_ , will fall from his lips. _I’m the boss_ , he will try to rationalize. But nothing made sense in that damned moment and nothing was clear afterwards either. They fought for nothing, like two soldiers too preoccupied with their orders to see the enormous tank in front of them. They both returned from an empty battlefield. The only casualty was their hurt egos.

It was after that fight when it happened for the first time. It was exactly 24 hours after the argument. It was also on one of his rare days off, barely a week since Viktor gained an unmoving roommate. It was a quiet, calm day. And Viktor mimicked it perfectly. He took a book from his shelf and started reading on his couch, in perfect silence. But when he got up to get himself some tea, he saw movement in the corner of his eyes. And It wasn’t much. Barely a shadow, barely a move at all. Yet Viktor noticed it.

He turned to the picture, because he saw it in that part of the house. Mercante Catsucchi looked him in the eyes, as always. What incredible power he had in his gaze. It was obvious he have been a man of incredible power. Viktor probably couldn’t even match the amount of riches that man gathered in his lifetime.

Looking at the painting, the dancer started thinking what happened with the man in the end? How did he die? Was it something dramatic like poison? Or did he die in a duel for the heart of some beautiful maiden? Maybe it was something pathetic like getting hit by a horse? He chuckled. That was ridiculous— Oh, dear gods above, did the eyes move again? No, it was probably just a trick of the light, maybe just a bird passed his windows and… the shadows moved. That made way more sense.

He laughed softly before speaking to the painting. “I’m so stupid sometimes.” The image of the note from Christophe came to his mind. “Ha. Ha.” He still had the piece of paper, carefully folded inside the book he was currently reading. “Thinking my picture could move.” In front of his eyes, Mercante Catsucchi was still watching him with the same air of casual superiority. Viktor felt like the man was just being polite with him. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?” He asked softly.

And in the half darkness of the living room, Viktor could swore on his life that he saw the painting smiling at him.

 _It’s not possible_ , said logic.

 _It’s a trick of the light_ , said reason.

 _It’s magic_ , said the heart.

Later that evening, when he turned on all the lights in the house and looked at the picture closely, the image was the same as always.

Viktor Nikiforov didn’t believe in fate or superstitions, but irony had another place in his heart and mind. A lot of things had that status in his life. They were ironic. It was ironic how famous he was, but how much he lived for appreciation and applause. It was ironic how handsome he was in the eyes of others, but ugly in his own. It was ironic how rich he was, but how unable to heal himself he was. It was… It was probably fitting for the ridiculous situation to occur again in that sole period of tiredness that always appeared around October. Three full moons came and went since the afternoon Christophe sent him the painting, carefully wrapped up in silk. Right after it happened, Viktor told himself it was just his exhaustion talking. It was a sound too quiet to actually qualify as a voice, and it was too weird to be a mouse too.

It was way past midnight. Even the sun started pushing away the night’s veil. Viktor’s own footsteps were so heavy he had to drag his feet after him. He could barely hold himself in a standing position, but stubbornness was a quality he took pride in. He aimed for the fridge before deciding he needed sleep for the days.

“Milk?” He asked the darkness, uselessly.

“Not anymore.” Came the answer almost instantly.

It was quiet and barely above a whisper. It dried the blood in Viktor’s veins. He stopped moving, even if the last rays of moonlight were making his body obvious. His shadow was enormous on the floor. He turned slightly, not moving too much, as if waiting for some kind of attack. _It’s not possible_ , he told himself, almost smiling. _It’s ridiculous._ There was no one in the apartment with him. Any visitor had to identify themselves at the gateway. No stranger could enter his apartment, and no neighbour could do it either.

He was… should have been alone.

“You drank it all on Saturday.” _Oh no._

That was definitely a male voice. There was no one in the apartment with him; no one except for Mercante Catsucchi, of course. Viktor fully turned to face the painting. The man didn’t move, obviously. He swallowed, breathed in, and told himself that he was tired. He started to rationalise the situation while his eyes were analysing the painting.

It was too dark to actually distinguish much of the picture. The brighter colours stood out like usual. The merchant’s eyes were as dark as Viktor remembered them. His expression was still calm and the slight smirk was looking as beautiful and discreet as ever.

That night, Viktor slept in his bed, with his door firmly shut.  

The next day, he woke up still in his bed, but covered by a blanket that he didn’t recognise. He immediately checked his locks, on the windows or on the doors. They were untouched, and yet he was covered in a tight blanket, painted in a fading _wine_ and it had a _canary yellow mazze_ pattern of birds and flowers. The small elements were stylised and seemed handmade. Someone spent weeks on that blanket that smelled like dust and ink.

Viktor didn’t know what to do with it, so he just threw it on his white sofa, as a way of decorating it. Melissa always said it was too empty, too sad.

The same day, he tells Christophe everything.

“I was by myself, Chris.” The sentence cuts the tired air of the theatre. Most dancers left, but Viktor was crazy enough to stay after working hours. Christophe usually provided him with some kind of humorous company. Viktor never explicitly asked Chris to stay with him after the sun went down and the building emptied, but the man did it anyway.

Christophe just hummed, still frowning at the new curtains that just arrived that afternoon. He seemed displeased with the colour itself, or the material, or maybe both? Viktor couldn’t tell. But he thought the _burgundy_ fit the theatre much better than the _blue_. So what if it was cliché and another thousand theatres in the world had the same colour? He was proud of his…

“Are you sure, Nikiforov?”

“Chris.”

“Just checking, mon cher.” Christophe finally turned to him. He had a small, kind smile on his lips. “You work so much, darling, I wouldn’t be surprised if you started hearing voices.”

Chris wasn’t wrong, but he wasn’t right either. Viktor did work a lot, but he wasn’t on the edge of madness. He didn’t lose himself so much that he started hearing voices. He didn’t tell Chris that he thought the painting talked to him. The man seemed to know anyway.

“Maybe you should take a break. Come to my place, take a stroll in the gardens, and enjoy yourself.”

The thought of leaving his apartment made his ribs tighten around his organs, making breathing impossible. A running thought told him _that is impossible_ , quickly followed by _you cannot leave_. Right, he couldn’t.

“I can’t, Chris.” He smiled and turned to leave the stage, suddenly pressed by the need to get home.

“You know, I will send some people your way.” Viktor turned, almost falling down the stairs, tripping on his own legs. “They’re professionals, don’t worry. Maybe making sure that your prized possession is still inanimate will ease your nerves.”

Several days later, when Chris actually appeared at his front door with two smiling women, Viktor wasn’t as certain anymore. The women were probably lovely, but the dancer didn’t know exactly what kind of professional help they were providing. Unlike Chris, who looked like he was ready to go to some kind of black tie party, they were dressed for a cup of Earl Grey with the queen.

“Viktor, mon cher, I’m glad I caught you at home.” Viktor was about to reply that he rarely left his house, but Christophe continued: “I was afraid you were at the Theatre against my wishes.” His friend smiled to him and Viktor mimicked him.

When his guests walked into his apartment, Viktor realized his home was too small for four people. The walls started shrieking around him. Both women reminded Viktor of coffee, of a specific drink that Christophe enjoyed, but he never tried. A _latte_ , his memory provided.

One of the women was studying him over her _crimson_ -framed glasses. She looked younger, almost childish. She had a curious look on her face, only accentuated by the pursued lips and high eyebrows. She was dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a floral blouse. Her eyes were melted _chocolate_ , beautifully accompanied by the _lapis_ locks in her black hair. She had the kind of style Christophe would call “cute”. The other woman was almost a polar opposite. She looked like a story, with her skirt the colour of _ink_ and shirt like a _parchment_. She wrote herself into the world with an ease reserved to the slaves of Art. Her _mocha_ hair was resting on her left shoulder beautifully braided in the way of the Frenchmen. Judging by the way she held herself, she was probably the leader.

“Hi, I’m Alex.” The mocha lady said.

The other giggled and gave Viktor a toothy grin.

“Hi.” She offered. The sounds were heavy on her tongue. Her accent reminded him of his own origins. _Russian. East-European?_ “I’m Alex too.”

He blinked. That was… something. The first Alex rolled her eyes, but a fond fire illuminated her eyes. She was clearly enjoying the company of the other.

“We are here to assist with the first cleaning of _The Portrait of Mercante Catsucchi_. We will also make sure you hanged it properly and in a place with minimum natural light.”

Viktor nodded and invited them into his living room. Chris threw a curious look towards Viktor when he saw the blanket. Oh, right. The dancer said nothing and simply joined his friend on the couch.

When Viktor had to watch other people work, he was usually choosing to keep an idle eye on them, but concentrate on whatever story Chris unfolded in that moment. His friend was an amazing storyteller, and an even better salesman. He had to ability to catch and hold Viktor’s attention at any time. And yet, Viktor couldn’t make himself follow his friend’s words. His eyes and mind were focused on the two working women. Weren’t they touching his painting a little too much? Surely there was no need for both of them to work on it.

“What troubles you, my friend?”

Viktor hummed, still trying to convince himself that the painting was in no immediate danger.

“Viktor?”

Chris sounded concerned. Why? What did Viktor miss in his story that made his friend seem worried? Was the feeling even aimed at him? He turned from the painting and looked at Chris.

“What is it?” He asked softly, confusion dripping from his consonants.

Chris raised an eyebrow.

“What is it, you ask me.” Annoyance. Why was he annoyed? Viktor just blinked. “You weren’t paying attention.” Chris offers, bitter and reminding Viktor of grapefruits. His cheekbones were painted faintly with a soft _pink_.

“Well, uhm, why is it such a big deal?”

The words barely solidified outside himself when he realised he should not have said that. He could see the moment fury boils in Chris’s eyes. His friend doesn’t say anything else. The story didn’t end. Chris got up and went to the door to retrieve his boots. Coincidentally, the second Alex was just putting the painting back on the wall. The first Alex turns towards Viktor. Chris was still silent, increasing Viktor’s confusion. Worry started to bloom in his chest. What happened? How much time did it pass? How many minutes did he miss?

“All done, Mister Nikiforov.” She was writing something on her clipboard. “Here it’s your receipt.” She looked unsure, but gave him a little paper. “Thank you for choosing our services.”

Christophe was silent next to the door, his hand on the handle. The women said nothing. All of them left him in the suffocating silence of his own home. He was instantly trapped.  

“Refrain from allowing strangers into my sanctuary.”

Viktor froze _It’s not possible_ , he told himself, breathing in. _It’s ridiculous_. The picture’s eyes were resting on his person; collected, calm and cold. _Inhumane_.

“I…” He tried. What was the protocol when one was addressing a picture? According to the few sources he was able to dug up, Mercate Catsucchi was a nobleman. Bowing in front of that painted face was considered. Viktor attempted a smile. It probably looked crooked. The picture kept looking at him. The other man expected an answer of some sort. “I apologise, my lord.”  

“Why do you call me that?”

The man moved his head, showing Viktor his left ear. He had a small earring in his lobule. The movement was one of the strangest the dancer ever witnessed. He saw paint dripping or slide on a surface when it was still wet, but he never saw paint move and preserve its form, its image.

“I’m no lord.” The man continued. “Not in this place, this kingdom.”

Was the man aware of the passing of time? Or of the fact that he was not in Italy anymore?

“Do you know where you are, sir?”

The man frowned and a grimace destroyed his sharp features.

“I do not.” He finally admitted and dropped his eyes.

“You are in New York City, The United States of America.”

The merchant looked at him then turned his attention to the maps on his table. _Oh._ The man was probably dead by the time any explorer even touched American land.

“The country we are in did not exist yet when you were alive, sir.”

Viktor tried the diplomatic approach, but something was certainly wrong with him that day. The man’s skin suddenly became a sickish _cream_. He was shocked by the news.

“Am I deceased?” The man asked softly.

Viktor’s heart made a small sound of desperation. How could he confirm the man’s biggest fear? Especially when the merchant seemed sick enough to faint right then and there.

“You are.” His lips moved. “I apologise, sir. I did not mean to startle you.”

That was the worst attempt at comfort Viktor ever heard himself speak.

“Words are always meant. Only fools speak without thinking.” That was probably correct, but Viktor was a fool. The man made a large gesture, as if he was showing Viktor something in his room. “I do not remember dying.” The man added and took a seat on his old chair.

“What do you remember?” Viktor dragged a chair in front of the picture.

“Being trapped.”

“Why?” His lips moved before he got a chance to assess the situation. How rude such a question would have sounded if he had taken the time to consider it.

The man straightened his back and looked somewhere above Viktor’s head and slightly to the left.

“The artist who painted my portrait was desirous. He wished for more than he could possess and much more than I could offer. Nothing was suitable: no silk, no thread, and no gem.” The man sighed. “He said I’m all his art. He was unable to paint something that was not me. He requested me as a model again and again. Every time, he left something of himself in the turndowns of my painted clothes. Every time, he stole some part of myself and hid it in the portrayed seams. Before I knew it, I was paint.” He paused, finally choosing to look in Viktor’s _cobalt_ eyes. “And paint I remained.”

Viktor nodded solemnly.

“What’s your name?”

“Catsucchi.” The man thought for a second. “Yuuri.”

“Yuuri.” The dancer repeated and decided that spending the rest of his life in front of his painting was better than anything else he could have achieved otherwise. His career was dead and buried.

Viktor Nikiforov didn’t believe in fate, but his heart did.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a companion piece! You can check out the drawing paired with it, [here.](https://shadhahvar.tumblr.com/post/164826494499/companion-piece-to-sabaix-s-yoi-shit-bang-2017)   
> Thank you for reading! <3


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